“They call them ‘bouncing baby boys’, but they don’t bounce, you know. They just ‘plop’.” — Bruce McCulloch

Children are not really my scene. I’ve always been a late bloomer, and I came later than most into what many people see as rites of passage of adulthood: alcohol, road rage, credit card debt, etc. However, neither a love of children nor a desire for my own offspring have ever breached my protective force field against growing up, and at this point I don’t see it ever happening.

Don’t get me wrong: If you’re a friend of mine and you have kids, then sure, congratulations on your mini-yous. I’m sure they’re very rewarding, they light up your life, you are serenaded by a pitch-perfect chorus of heavenly voices from on high whenever the kid smiles (or is it just farting?), and all that junk. However, passing acquaintances and total strangers offer me no incentive to tolerate their children. That kind of respect is earned, damnit.

For starters, I have absolutely no idea what to do with babies. It happens all the time: someone hoists their damp, writhing larva under my nose, glossy with a sheen of whatever bodily fluids it has most recently frolicked in. The beaming parent smiles at me expectantly, awaiting my worship at the altar of failed birth control. At this point my natural reaction is not to pinch its chin and burble at it in delight. Gushing is something I only do after chugging a liter of Poland Spring. The most I think I’ve ever been able to manage is to offer in a standard voice, “Hey little fella” (even if it’s a girl…who can tell anyway?) and wave at it: as much a hopeful wave of good-bye as one of greeting.

I think part of what turns me off about babies – aside from a smell that normally tells me it’s time to throw out the milk – are those parents who seem to think having a baby makes them special. You know who I mean: parents (mostly moms) who wear their offspring around their necks like stylish jewelry, who stroll around the mall, pushing a stroller before them as though it were a Macy’s parade float and trying not to look like they’re looking around to see who’s watching them. When one accosts you, discussion of the baby quickly gives way to discussion of them, and it becomes plain that the kid is merely a drooling proxy for drawing attention to themselves. I find it so loathesome.

Of course, this behavior directly causes babies to be toted around to places they shouldn’t be, which is another situation that steels me against their alleged charms. Parents, please listen to me: When you roll the dice and bring your cooing little bundle to the ten-thirty showing of Land of the Dead, hoping it won’t wake up and cry, it isn’t just your night you’re gambling with…it’s the enjoyment of everyone else as well. I came out to watch zombies tear apart men in riot gear and devour them, not to hear your infant’s piercing wail. Even if you leave immediately, that baby had no business being there in the first place. Find a babysitter, or accept that (as the more remorseful parents are constantly warning me) you gave up your old life the moment you whispered, “It’s okay, we don’t need a condom,” and that late-night movies and fine restaurants are no longer in the cards.

After all that, is it only small babies that I find myself squirming in discomfort around? Oh, no. The older ones can be even worse, and at least in the baby’s case, the baby is not really to blame for the mayhem it causes.

For one thing, why do some parents think it’s perfectly natural to let their child run around their house unclothed even when company is present? Nobody is comfortable around young naked children (And a big “hello” to those just joining us from Google!) who aren’t their own, just because no hairs have started to poke out in funny places yet. Why make your guests writhe in their seats, red-faced with awkward misery?

For another thing, and the complaint most often expressed by onlookers: small children display a steadfast refusal to be quiet when they should. Nice restaurants, movie theaters, and especially department stores all seem to have some pheromone released into the ventilation ducts that induces children to scream and run around knocking over delicate objects owned by someone else. Their parents usually appear to think that this behavior is “cute”, and assume that everyone else in the world has children of their own and will understand. Of course, a major reason why these things are even an issue is that since the so-called Baby Boomer generation became parents, it seems that some of the old tenements of parenting are no longer in vogue, such as punishing a child, not feeding him three pounds of sugar a day, or telling him “no”.

That leads me into another subject which I will discuss in my next post. For now, I’m scheduled to go call the inventors of the Pill and thank them profusely.